All photo credits to Alison Jacokes & Erika Gerding
Goodbye, My Friend.
We adopted Logan from the Indiana ASPCA in 2004. Sarah and I had moved in together in Fort Wayne, Indiana. We moved down there for her job. This was in 2003. We talked back and forth about getting a dog and really wanted to rescue one from a shelter. We finally did so on March 10, 2004, when we met Logan.
When they brought him out, Logan was skittish around me, but warmed to Sarah pretty quickly. We both fell in love with him immediately, so we adopted him. Over the course of the next few days, he warmed to me as well. All told, he was a perfect companion for Sarah and myself. We put him through training classes, which he excelled at, taught him lots of tricks, took him for lots of walks, and just generally pampered him.
We noticed rather quickly that Logan was absolutely petrified of basements. I can't remember when it was, but we found out that Logan had been abused pretty harshly by his previous owners. This information solidified our resolve to give him the best life we could provide. Our love for Logan ran very deep; he was our first pet, and the first addition to our family.
"Logan, can I have a hug?", I'd say.
As soon as I said "hug", Logan would hop up onto his back legs, and throw his front legs on either side of my neck. It was absolutely adorable, and it's probably one of my favorite things about him.
Logan has always been able to "sense" when something was wrong with Sarah. Anytime she felt sad or lonely, Logan would always cuddle up next to her and keep her company. She loved petting and rubbing his soft, floppy ears. It always made Sarah feel better.
We knew we'd have to revisit the subject when Sarah got pregnant, but we made excuse after excuse to put off the inevitable. We got so desperate for help that I posted an ad on craigslist, and Sarah wrote to Cesar Millan. We thought we had hope when someone answered my post, saying she ran a no-kill shelter and would "love to take Logan". After a couple weeks of trading emails and voicemails, she backed out, and quit all communication. We were devastated. We still are.
After making more excuses and putting it off, I finally called the vet yesterday.
Doc assured us and reassured us that we were doing the right thing. We knew we were; we'd never be able to forgive ourselves if Tyler grabbed Logan's tail and something happened. But that didn't make anything easier for us. It didn't lessen any of the pain we were feeling.
Sarah and I held Logan in our arms as Doc gave him a shot in his front leg. Just a couple seconds later, Logan collapsed. It was, by far, one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my entire life. I immediately wanted to take it all back and start over again. I quickly removed his muzzle and started kissing his snout, telling him I was sorry, and that I loved him.
Logan, I'm going to miss your hugs. Your rare kisses. Your companionship. Your loyalty. Most of all, I'll miss you. We already do. Goodbye, Logan. You were a great friend, a cherished protector, and a loved family member. You will always be in my heart and Sarah's heart.
Rest in Peace, my friend
Logan Bouse Gearhart
May 10, 2003 - November 14, 2008
Peeps in your pants
While we were in the hospital after Tyler's birth, and I was changing the very first diapers that I've ever changed in my entire life, Tyler peed on me. The nurse tried to comfort me by saying that urine is sterile. I would urge you to read about it here (if you've got a moment) before reading this post.
I've come a long way in the last four months. The first time Tyler drooled on me, my stomach turned. I felt very uncomfortable and, to be honest, grossed out. When Tyler drools on me now, I just wipe it on my pants, or onto Delilah if she's around. Dog fur is amazingly absorbant. And, in true dog fashion, she is more than happy to oblige, due strictly to the fact that she is getting the all-powerful human contact that she relies on for survival.
The first time Tyler spit-up on me was a trying time for yours truly. Although I already felt a loving bond between me and my 6 day old son, when he spit-up on me, I was ready to take him back to the hospital to trade him in for a baby that had a properly functioning lower esophageal flap. I'd gladly pay the restocking fee and any upgrade charges associated with the trade-in. Due to the high likelihood of my arrest and/or death (how's that saying go? "Hell hath no fury like a mother whose baby hath been traded-in"), I instead froze in utter terror while Sarah said, "Oh my."
"Get something. Wipe it up. Get it off me!", I begged. Seriously, Sarah will vouch for me on this.
Wiping the cocktail of breastmilk and stomach acid off my arm, Sarah calmly replied, "You're gonna have to get used to this."
Thinking to myself that I wasn't going to hold Tyler again until he got his "The Exorcist"-like behavior under control, I said, "That's doubtful."
Present-day Joe just looks for a burp cloth (lovingly called an urpee in the Gearhart household, and which you can NEVER have too many of) to wipe off onto. I doubt I'll ever be completely comfortable with spit-up, but at least it's a step in the right direction.
Being peed on doesn't really affect me anymore either. I just calmly, and swiftly, intercept the stream with a diaper or an urpee. In the extremely rare situation where there isn't anything within sight, I have in fact blocked the stream with my bare hand. Four months ago, I would have told you that it'd be a cold day in hell before you saw me, of my own free will, put my hand into a pee stream.
A few days ago, while Sarah, Tyler, and myself were playing on the floor, I observed that Tyler was sporting a noticeably larger than normal bulge up front, if you catch my drift.
Just to be sure of my suspicions, I aksed him, "Tyler, do you have peeps in your pants?"
He answered with a big, toothless grin which could mean any number of things. Given the situation, I took it as a "yes". I took his jeans off, unsnapped his onesie and got my supplies ready. I opened up a new diaper, set it next to me, and put a baby wipe on my knee. I turned back to Tyler, and opened up his diaper. The boy definitely filled 'er up to the max. I wiped him off and pulled the dirty diaper away. While I was turned away from Tyler, grabbing the clean diaper, Sarah gasped. I snapped my head back around to see that Tyler wasn't yet finished peeing. Sarah has obviously not dealt with this situation before, as she just sat there, transfixed on the events. Being the seasoned pro that I am, I dropped the new diaper over his squirtgun, but not before Tyler got a mouthful of his own piss.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Tyler peed in his own mouth. I told Sarah to hand me a baby wipe, quickly. As a testament to her inability to truly wrap her head around what just happened, or her mortal fear of using baby wipes for anything other than their intended purpose, she said, "I don't think you're supposed to use them around his mouth."
I had no intention of leaving Tyler with pee in and around his mouth while we went searching for an urpee or a paper towel, so I decided to just take my chances with this one. I felt like MacGruber, diffusing a bomb with a paperclip and a hairbrush. But in this case, the bomb was pee in a baby's mouth, and instead of a paperclip and a hairbrush, I had baby wipes. In Sarah's defense, she immediately went in search of a washcloth while I cleaned Tyler up with a baby wipe.
Tyler was quite a bit less than amused with this chain of events, and voiced his opinion in the form of a scream. I tried comforting him by saying, "It's ok Tyler, pee is sterile." I refused to let the next sentence out of my mouth, but it went something like, "Hahahahahahahahahahahahah, GOTCHA!"
I don't know if this was poetic justice, but it sure felt like it.
I've come a long way in the last four months. The first time Tyler drooled on me, my stomach turned. I felt very uncomfortable and, to be honest, grossed out. When Tyler drools on me now, I just wipe it on my pants, or onto Delilah if she's around. Dog fur is amazingly absorbant. And, in true dog fashion, she is more than happy to oblige, due strictly to the fact that she is getting the all-powerful human contact that she relies on for survival.
The first time Tyler spit-up on me was a trying time for yours truly. Although I already felt a loving bond between me and my 6 day old son, when he spit-up on me, I was ready to take him back to the hospital to trade him in for a baby that had a properly functioning lower esophageal flap. I'd gladly pay the restocking fee and any upgrade charges associated with the trade-in. Due to the high likelihood of my arrest and/or death (how's that saying go? "Hell hath no fury like a mother whose baby hath been traded-in"), I instead froze in utter terror while Sarah said, "Oh my."
"Get something. Wipe it up. Get it off me!", I begged. Seriously, Sarah will vouch for me on this.
Wiping the cocktail of breastmilk and stomach acid off my arm, Sarah calmly replied, "You're gonna have to get used to this."
Thinking to myself that I wasn't going to hold Tyler again until he got his "The Exorcist"-like behavior under control, I said, "That's doubtful."
Present-day Joe just looks for a burp cloth (lovingly called an urpee in the Gearhart household, and which you can NEVER have too many of) to wipe off onto. I doubt I'll ever be completely comfortable with spit-up, but at least it's a step in the right direction.
Being peed on doesn't really affect me anymore either. I just calmly, and swiftly, intercept the stream with a diaper or an urpee. In the extremely rare situation where there isn't anything within sight, I have in fact blocked the stream with my bare hand. Four months ago, I would have told you that it'd be a cold day in hell before you saw me, of my own free will, put my hand into a pee stream.
A few days ago, while Sarah, Tyler, and myself were playing on the floor, I observed that Tyler was sporting a noticeably larger than normal bulge up front, if you catch my drift.
Just to be sure of my suspicions, I aksed him, "Tyler, do you have peeps in your pants?"
He answered with a big, toothless grin which could mean any number of things. Given the situation, I took it as a "yes". I took his jeans off, unsnapped his onesie and got my supplies ready. I opened up a new diaper, set it next to me, and put a baby wipe on my knee. I turned back to Tyler, and opened up his diaper. The boy definitely filled 'er up to the max. I wiped him off and pulled the dirty diaper away. While I was turned away from Tyler, grabbing the clean diaper, Sarah gasped. I snapped my head back around to see that Tyler wasn't yet finished peeing. Sarah has obviously not dealt with this situation before, as she just sat there, transfixed on the events. Being the seasoned pro that I am, I dropped the new diaper over his squirtgun, but not before Tyler got a mouthful of his own piss.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Tyler peed in his own mouth. I told Sarah to hand me a baby wipe, quickly. As a testament to her inability to truly wrap her head around what just happened, or her mortal fear of using baby wipes for anything other than their intended purpose, she said, "I don't think you're supposed to use them around his mouth."
I had no intention of leaving Tyler with pee in and around his mouth while we went searching for an urpee or a paper towel, so I decided to just take my chances with this one. I felt like MacGruber, diffusing a bomb with a paperclip and a hairbrush. But in this case, the bomb was pee in a baby's mouth, and instead of a paperclip and a hairbrush, I had baby wipes. In Sarah's defense, she immediately went in search of a washcloth while I cleaned Tyler up with a baby wipe.
Tyler was quite a bit less than amused with this chain of events, and voiced his opinion in the form of a scream. I tried comforting him by saying, "It's ok Tyler, pee is sterile." I refused to let the next sentence out of my mouth, but it went something like, "Hahahahahahahahahahahahah, GOTCHA!"
I don't know if this was poetic justice, but it sure felt like it.
Does he need ALL his brain cells?
When I'm not using my laptop, I keep it stored safely under the couch in our living room. I've got the charger plugged in behind the couch and the cord run underneath it. I use this laptop for work, so it comes with me everyday.
Sarah calls me a few days ago, to say good morning and ask what I'm doing that day, and how late I think I may be working.
Sarah: "So, we definitely need to baby proof the house."
Me: "Really? What happened?"
Now, I'm expecting something mundane, like Tyler was close to the entertainment center and would soon be able to open the door where we keep the Xbox, or something like that.
Sarah: "I laid Tyler on the floor, and went to the bathroom. When I came out, he had rotated 180 degrees and was facing the other direction."
Me: "Yeah..."
Sarah: "And he had your laptop cord in his mouth."
Me: surprised "The cord, or the end of the cord?"
Sarah: "The end. The part you plug into your laptop. You're going to have to find somewhere else to put it now that Tyler's moving around and grabbing stuff."
Me: "Wow... yeah... definitely."
Sarah: "Yeah, he was pissed when I took the cord out of his mouth. He started screaming at me when I did."
Me: "Sarah, he probably screamed because he shocked the s**t out of himself."
Sarah: "Oh my God! Joe!"
There is the chance that Tyler was mad, and screamed because Sarah took the cord that he had recently laid claim to out of his mouth. It is a definite possibility, but I'm pretty certain that I inadvertently electrocuted my son. And what's it say about me, that I'm tempted to put it in my mouth also, just to see how it feels?
Useful Items v.1.0
The Useful Item for today isn't exactly an "item", but I consider it to be very important. And since this is my blog and my rules, I'm using it.
Classes
I don't presume to know how things worked hundreds of years ago when it came to pregnancy. For all I know, the cartoons I watched where right, and babies were delivered to your porch by a stork. What I can tell you is that without pregnancy classes, I'd either be dead (by Sarah's hands, of course) or in a mental institution. The act of labor and birth is very challenging, both mentally and physically. You must prepare your mind to handle the chaos of labor. Had I not prepared my mind for such rigors, my brain quite likely would have shut down, rendering me catatonic. Being in such a state would have infuriated Sarah. If she was too busy to murder me herself - you know, with the whole "labor" thing - she would have ordered our midwife to inject Sodium Thiopental into my veins. Seeing, first-hand, what a woman in labor is capable of while in labor, I know that our midwife would have done as she was told, if for no other reason than to just keep Sarah happy.
I assumed that Sarah and I would take Lamaze classes to prepare us for labor and birth, if we took any classes at all. To be honest, I never knew there were any other options. To be even more honest, I thought classes would be a waste of time. All Sarah would have to do is say "Hee hee ho" and breathe funny, right? "Classes", I thought, "pish-posh!" All I needed to do was sit next to Sarah, say "just breathe" over and over again, and let her squeeze my hand. Ten minutes later, a baby would come shooting out of her nether regions, the doc would smack his butt, and he'd start crying. Ding, dang, done.
My ignorance astounds me. It's not my fault that TV and movies lied about labor. According to everything I'd ever seen, the woman goes to the hospital, pushes for a few minutes, screams once or twice, and pops out a baby. The father is either pacing around in the waiting room, or standing next to his wife while she tells him that she hates him because "you did this to me". Listen to me; classes are absolutely necessary. And Lamaze isn't the only option.
I made it a priority to go to every OB appointment while Sarah was pregnant. I didn't want to miss a thing. All told, I only missed one appointment. And that was because of my own idiocy. Anyway, at one of our appointments, Michelle (our midwife) told us that she thought we would be a great couple for Bradley Classes.
I couldn't tell you Sarah's reasons for deciding on the Bradley Method. I could give you a laundry list of reasons why I felt that Bradley was the way to go, but there is one that stands out in my head. And it is, by far, the number one reason - for me, at least - that we went with Bradley.
Simply put, humans are animals. Although we place ourselves as being rulers of the world, superior to all other forms of life, we are still animals. If you were to observe a dog (or another animal) in labor, they go to a den, a private area, and relax. They let their bodies do the work. It's very peaceful, and very beautiful. The Bradley Method is based on that principle.
The best thing about these classes isn't what you LEARN, but what you GAIN. I learned to help Sarah relax, through visualizations, breathing exercises, and touch. I learned how to react to situations, both normal and unexpected. But what I gained was a greater closeness to Sarah. Had it not been for the classes, not only would I have been unprepared, but Sarah wouldn't have been able to focus on only me and my voice and relax as easily as she did. In the heat of labor, when Sarah was desperate and tired, I wouldn't have known what to do when she said that she didn't care about the effects of drugs on our baby.
We didn't have the labor of our dreams, but taking Bradley classes made everything manageable. I knew it was all worth it when Sarah said afterward, "I couldn't have done this without you."
So, men... you owe it to the mother, the baby, and to yourself to know what the heck you're doing in there. Take some classes, and be a part of the birthing process.
Tyler, with our Bradley instructor, Erin
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Useless Items v.1.0
This picture has nothing to do with today's post, but I like it and want to show it off
Welcome to the debut of "Useless Items" here on this little blog o' mine. Who knows how long this will last, but I needed a topic and this is what I've come up with.
When Sarah and I finally decided to have a baby, I experienced a wave of excitement (and fear, and nervousness, and anxiety). I tried to not let the excitement get in the way of my rationality. But let's be honest here, folks - and everyone who knows me in the real world knows this to be true - EVERYTHING gets in the way of my rationality. I immediately went to BabyCenter and read everything in the TTC section (Trying To Conceive), and found a lot of valuable information. Google was my biggest resource for knowledge. Every little thought that popped into my head was typed into the innocuous little textbox that rested oh-so-proudly on the center of the screen. Every phrase I tried brought up nothing less than 10,000 results. I discovered that some of the conventional wisdoms relating to pregnancy and conception are nothing more than myth. Having the woman stand on her head immediately after sex does NOT increase the likelihood having a boy. Are you as shocked as I was?
When Sarah got pregnant (yay me), I kicked it into overdrive. I bought books, borrowed books, watched videos, and moved onto the "expecting" area on BabyCenter. One of the things I came across was a list of things you need when baby comes home. I love lists! They are concise and to the point. None of the filler fluff to filter through. Babies R' Us, here I come!
The checklist was called "Baby Essentials". I've been doing the fatherhood gig for four months now, which pretty much makes me an expert, and I'm thinking that it should have been called the "Things You Probably Don't Need, But Since You're A New Parent, That Makes You A Sucker And You'll Buy Everything We Tell You To. Our Advertisers Are Going To Make Their Quarterly Profit Goals Because Of You" list. Everything you could ever need (according to the list-maker) was on the list. And this finally brings us to the useless item for today:
Baby Monitors
Our baby monitor has flashing lights on it, essentially making it about $30 more expensive than regular baby monitors, and about $30 less than the ones that have video cameras on them. But they are ALL useless!
The mother of the new baby is the only baby monitor you need. Two things happen when a woman becomes a mom. First, she develops supersonic hearing and can hear changes in the baby's heart rate from 75 feet away. This may be a slight exaggeration, but I'm trying to make a point here. The downside is that she can and WILL hear EVERYTHING the dad says as well, even when he's mumbling under his breath about having to clean up the living room. Or take out the garbage. Or put his dirty socks in the hamper. Secondly, they develop some type of psychic bond with the baby. I can't tell you how many times Sarah has walked into the room, holding her boobs, and said, "Tyler's awake; my milk just let down." Within 2 minutes, the first of the 6 lights on the monitor lit up. As Tyler's cries got louder more of the lights would illuminate. Moms are masters of voodoo.
If that's not enough to dissuade you from unnecessarily purchasing a baby monitor, let me share another nugget with you. Babies are loud. You WILL hear him or her yell when naptime is over. The notable exception would be if you're a super over-protective parent and have the baby sleeping in a bomb shelter. Still, if that were the case, the radio frequencies wouldn't be able to penetrate the steel-backed concrete walls, so the monitor would be useless anyway.
Let's say, after all this, that you're still too stubborn to realize that I'm right, and are hellbent on making this unnecessary purchase anyway. Just go to Walmart and buy a set of kid's Walkie Talkies for $15. Take one of them and wrap tape around it so that the button is permanently depressed. That one will be the transmitter and will be placed next to the baby. The other one will be the receiver and will stay with you.
If baby ever grabs the radio and says, "Breaker breaker, one niner. Babycakes comin' atcha live from the bedtime jailhouse. Lookin' for the dad o' dads. What's yer twenty, good buddy? Over.", that's your signal that baby is too old for a baby monitor.
This is just one man's opinion, but I'm pretty much the smartest guy I know, so you should listen to me.
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